Friday, April 01, 2016

Much to Give

Morning Blueberries
—Poems by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento
—Photos by Local-Photographer-Who-Chooses-


I’ll hide the pills, then put them in a plant;
orange Popsicles will help me stay awake.
Eat them all night, and I won’t have to sleep,
I thought; yet, when the T.V. died
(back then, no stations broadcast through the night)
my knees grew weak and I was overcome.
The days that followed often were a blur;
I had to take the pills, you see, and more.
I still recall a few bizarre details—
a grandma, who in fancy lingerie
would wander aimlessly the corridor.
They strapped me down, thrust in a tongue guard, too;
then gave electric volts that sawed my bones.
They tried and tried to break my spirit,
and when they failed, used an electric prod.
A dear friend’s intervention saved my life,
although, years later, I still live alone.

 Vinca major


balance softness, steel
brains, spunk, drive, tenacity
soprano aria at midnight
contralto sings me to sleep
blue bells from a maiden’s eyes
crone’s gaze, grey ocean

tender            tough
yields             aggresses
soft                flint
delicate          lusty
caring            self-obsessed
clean             hoarder
graceful         trudging
beautiful        plain
supportive     flighty   
mother          killer   
hands-on       in her head

woman opens her arms
heart, whole body
vulnerable, receives
responds, pulses
as waves move
as night meets day
from inside, out

 David Austin "Kate"


in leather pail over hot rocks
tempered by flames
in stainless steel
bubbling sweet, dense, savory
over coil, gas, hearth

simmering, body’s yearning
flicker at spine’s base
heart breathes
passion simmers



are things I miss
through years living alone

breaking bread with close kin
shared pleasure, nurture, joy
strength regained
from good food, drink

past meals when
arguments blighted our table
snuffed shared light
gives pause
lest sentiment or wish cloud fact

yet, other memories,
good times multiplied
by thousands
stored in genes
shared jug, roast
more than assure



today I am reminded of my mortality

on fire all my days
I suddenly find myself
insufficient to balance
humanity’s pounding thrusts
Sun’s blaze, Earth’s stubborn turbulence—
both also dying

my time here stretches thin
perhaps longer than nature intended

out of place, out of energy, out of strength
out of love, purpose, breath



green spring
green celadon buds
fuzzy, dainty leaf rolls
peek, flirt, reassure
spring brings another cycle
green sap renewed
in roots, trunks, limbs

green fuzzy tips
shy, delicate, exuberant
dwarf tree, ornamental
outside gated apartments
at street’s edge
far from wooded glen
deep forest grove

grace, green spring
oxygen, shade
she gives freely
I rejoice as green
returns, tucked along
slender branches
and at their ends

but today, looked
to greet spring’s unfolding
saw instead
pruners came
she rises straight, narrow
gray-brown bark ridges—
at her crown, just two or three
green-tipped branches remain

flat, open circle
on her trunk
limb was sawed, bleeds pain
at her feet, newly dug open holes
to be filled by steel flag poles
snapping fabric
advertising apartments at her back

 Pink Chard


Clear morning light finds me alone and stiff.
Arising with a sigh, I quell despair,
for I believe I still have much to give.

Stride out, still wary; yet I feel as if
absorbing pain’s a cross that I can bear—
clear morning light brings warmth to bones, so stiff.

Yet as the day progresses, my legs give
out—feet and bowels swell—I no longer care
and run home, though I still have much to give.

Past lovers are long gone, as through a sieve;
still, tender, passionate memories flare—
in clear morning light, our past, I re-live.

I’m shamed by tragedies that others live.
I have enough—my talents, a safe lair;
I am not dead—I still have much to give.

Desire runs through my fingers, riff by riff;
I gather fortitude—my heart, I’ll bare.
Clear morning finds my body tired and stiff,
and yet I breathe your name, my heart to give.

 Vivienne Goldy in Repose

Today’s LittleNip:


rock-pillows age
to jade-toned greenstone
countless tiny grains
form sandstone

waves polish, then enfold
rocks slip within ocean's crust
melt into liquid mantle
return in Vulcan's passionate rebirth


—Medusa, with our thanks to Ann Wehrman and our Local-Photographer-Who-Chooses-to-Remain-Anonymous, and a reminder that photos in this, the cream-colored "diary" side of the Kitchen, can be enlarged with a single click.

Oh, and Happy Poetry Month (and April Fool's Day)!